


One... Two... Three...

by JokerzPrincezz



Series: The Quiet of 221B Baker Street [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Sex, Angst, Coma, Eventual Happy Ending, First Kiss, First Time, Heartbreak, John is shot at the pool, M/M, Major Character Injury, Mental Breakdown, Mind Palace, Minor Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, No one cares about Sarah, Not Canon Compliant, Riding, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Topping from the Bottom, Virgin!Sherlock, bi!john
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-30
Updated: 2019-01-30
Packaged: 2019-10-19 08:13:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17597597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JokerzPrincezz/pseuds/JokerzPrincezz
Summary: Moriarty walks back into the pool.A shot rings out in the night.John Watson falls to the ground, blood soaking his shirt.Sherlock Holmes feels his heart torn from his chest.The coma lasts three months.Three months Sherlock Holmes life is on hold. What is he without his conductor of light? What is he without the moral compass that is John Watson?Nothing, of course. Absolutely nothing.





	One... Two... Three...

**Author's Note:**

> This isn't beta'd  
> I've been dealing with a bad bout of insomnia and depression as well as being really sick. So this is what you get.  
> Johnlock is canon, Moffet can shove it.

_Caring wasn’t an advantage_

_Caring wasn’t an advantage_

_Caring wasn’t…_

_But then why did it feel so wonderful? Sherlock was so confused, so lost when it came to John Watson. He didn’t understand anything when it came to this man. He was soft, strong, brave, vulnerable, honorable, merciless. John seemed to fill the room, but he was so unassuming. So multifaceted, so unlike the people in Sherlock's day to day life. The kind doctor, the worried brother, the honored soldier, he was boyish and had the morals of men far better than any Sherlock had ever met._

_He was…_

_He was…_

“What… would you like me… to make him say next?”

Oh god, the bomb. Semtex. John. _John._ Sherlock felt fear and relief sweep through him in waves. He wasn’t wrong, John _was_ the man he thought him to be. Sherlock felt silly for thinking for even a second that John had anything to do with this. But then blind panic gripped Sherlock's long disused heart. He swung around, looking for the real Moriarty, hoping that… that…

“Gottle o’ gear, gottle o’ gear gottle o’-”

“Stop it.” Sherlock demanded as calmly as he could.

He could hear John's voice shaking. It was slight, so slight that had Sherlock not known John so well, he’d have been unable to tell that John was even nervous. Sherlock approached slowly, John's words coming in and out of his ears. He felt like crying, his face twisting for just a moment. Terrified, so scared, so scared. He couldn’t… not _John_. Anyone but John.

“I stopped him…” Johns face twisted for a moment, “I can stop John Watson too… Stop his heart.” John looked down at his chest, then up as Sherlock again. His hands where steady.

Of course they were… this was John…

Of course….

Moriarty stepped out, revealed himself. The man was small, a receding hair line that Sherlock had noticed when he walked into the lab with Molly. Moriarty was still slouching, though he cut a much more imposing figure in his bespoke suit as apposed to the terrible ensemble he’d sported the last time they met. While Moriarty talked Sherlock raised his other hand, trying desperately to keep his shaking hands steady, keep the gun trained. Sherlock, for all his fear and anger, was remotely reminded of a Muppet character when Jim spoke. The frog one, if he wasn’t mistaken. The name had been deleted from his mind ages ago. Not that it mattered at the moment.

Sherlock had to admit it was rather elegant, brilliant even, a consulting criminal…

While Jim ranted on, trying to warn him away (as if that would ever happen after he threatened John, _his_ John) Sherlock's eyes kept bouncing back and forth between the two men. After a moment Sherlock realized, with startling clarity, that while he was able to lock away his feelings on a case and shut those emotions away, faced with John's mortality his anger for the innocent woman he couldn’t save bubbled to the surface. Jim’s eyes widened, his madness peeking through for just a moment.

“ _THAT’S WHAT PEOPLE DO!_ ” before composing himself and continuing to approach calmly.

Sherlock took a chance, his eyes bouncing to John, assessing. His friend looked unharmed.

“You alright?” he asked softly. John tensed his jaw, eyes and head downcast, too smart to disobey orders. John was good with orders…

“You can talk, Johnny boy” Jim teased, leaning in so he was breathing on John's neck. John tensed slightly, eyes meeting Sherlock's under furrowed brows, and nodded minutely.

 In a wild bid for John's freedom Sherlock offered Moriarty the missile plans. England be damned. The _world_ be damned. Let Jim burn the world down around them, as long as John wasn’t hurt. Then John, sweet, strong, loyal, _perfect_ John tried to hold back Moriarty. Begging Sherlock to run. As if Sherlock ever would. As if John Watson hadn’t ingrained himself on Sherlock's heart the moment he walked into that lab, as if he hadn’t reached into Sherlock's brain, rewiring years of loneliness in just a few days, with just a few smiles.

Sherlock's hand didn’t waver. He didn’t flinch back. If John died, so did he. Sherlock almost felt himself growl like a dog when Moriarty turned his head, nuzzling into John as the older man grimaced away, threatening to blow them both up. Then John froze, his eyes widened just slightly. He looked lost, more like a child than ever. His eyes met Sherlock's, and Sherlock realized what had happened. Moriarty wasn’t stupid… He had two snipers. One trained on him, one on John. Sherlock shook his head minutely, seeming to shake John out of his panic and the man immediately stepped back.

“I’ll burn… the heart out of you.” Moriarty finished with a half-smile.

 Sherlock blinked hard, forcing his eyes not to go to John when Moriarty insinuated that’s where his heart lay. He tried pathetically, and oh he knew it was hopeless, to make Moriarty believe he only cared for John in the “pet” fashion Moriarty had alluded to. It wasn’t true of course. Moriarty echoed as much.

“Ciao, Sherlock Holmes” Moriarty sneered, moving away from John, towards the door.

“Catch you… later” Sherlock sneered back.

“No, you won’t!”

It was a tense few seconds… then the red dot disappeared and Sherlock dove for his blogger. He ripped the vest from the man and slid it as far away from them as possible.

“All right? Are you alright?!” He demanded unable to keep the panic from his voice now they where alone.

“Sherlock, Sherlock!” John cried. It was like the man couldn’t say anything else. Sherlock felt animalistic, prowling around them, looking for new threats. Scared, so scared…

John was speaking then, trying to ask if he was ok. Sherlock? Sherlock wasn’t the one with a cracked rib, he could see it now in the way John squatted rather than sat, clutching his right side. Sherlock answered distractedly, panic and adrenaline still making his hands shake, he tried to awkwardly thank John.

John made a joke about ripping his clothes off, trying to break the tension, Sherlock looked at him fondly, smiling slightly, his heart starting to slow. John grinned back at him impishly, going to stand back up… Then he froze, Sherlock's eyes widened again in fear.

_One…_

_Two…_

_Three…_

John looked up at him, his eyes roaming Sherlock's body in terror. Sherlock looked down at himself and took a shuddering breath.

_Four…_

_Five…_

 Johns eyes on his tousled hair

_Six…_

Six, at least six red dots. Six snipers. Sherlock froze as the door behind them burst open, Moriarty swinging through.

“You can’t be allowed to continue…” The Irishman chuckled. “You just can’t, I would try to convince you but…” Moriarty shrugged and smiled at him coyly.

“I do think a demonstration would be more effective.”

Sherlock swung his head around, his eyes meeting John's. Panic, his blood froze, the sound reached him after the visual. John's eyes closed in pain, he fell to the side, screaming as he clutched his right side, just below his rib cage.

“NO!” Sherlock screamed. Moriarty was laughing, leaving, Sherlock didn’t register, he was kneeling beside John, crying, screaming _no_ over and over. The gun had dropped somewhere, he didn’t care.

John,

John,

Blood

So much _blood_ ……

The next thing Sherlock remembered he was screaming and crying, fighting against hands holding him back. Why was he screaming? Who was holding him? He cried out again in fear, confusion, his eyes found John's body… limp… _blood_ , they where taking him. Bright lights, people in uniforms, there was so much _blood_ , so many people swarming John. Sherlock let out an animalistic scream, unable to contain himself. A hand slapped him roughly and he snarled, his eyes breaking contact with John and the ambulance who’s doors where closing. Lestrade, Lestrade had struck him.

“Sherlock!” The man bellowed, for what Sherlock was quite certain wasn’t the first time.

Sherlock stilled, eyes wide, body shaking.

“Are you with me?” Lestrade demanded, brushing off the two, rather burly, officers holding him back.

Lestrade gripped his shoulders tightly. Sherlock shrugged the older man off, swinging around. He was outside the pool. He was… he looked down. His jacket was gone. There was blood, so much blood. His hands where still slick, the blood still warm. _John’s_ blood. A mobile phone in Sherlock’s hand, it was his. _Had he called the police?_ Covered in blood.

_There was so much blood,_

_So much blood_

_So much_

“Sherlock!” Lestrade demanded again, grabbing Sherlock's shoulders harshly again. Sherlock realized he’d been speaking allowed. His wild eyes settled on Lestrade.

“John,” he choked out. Lestrade furrowed his brow.

“Sherlock, breath, I need you to breath.”

Sherlock breathed in harshly, more panting than breathing.

Why was he like this?

_Caring is not an advantage…_ Mycroft’s voice in his head.

_That was brilliant_ , Johns voice…

_Sherlock, why is there a head in the fridge?_

_Need anything from the store?_

_Budge over, I want to watch_

_Thank you_

_You git_

_No, Sherlock, no cigarettes_

_Shall I make that pasta you like tonight?_

_Soft eyes, softer smile, warm hands on his ankle, not pushing Sherlock’s feet off his lap. Waking up after an all-night marathon of Bond movies (“_ Sherl, what do you mean you deleted James Bond?! He’s James bloody Bond!” _) still on the couch together. Sherlock stretched out, the bowl of popcorn kicked to the ground, his feet in John’s lap, John’s face cupped in his own hand, soft snores._

_So warm…_

“Sherlock, what the bloody hell happened?” Lestrade demanded. Sherlock blinked, trying to come back to himself.

“Mor- Moriarty… He was. John. There where…” Sherlock just shook his head wordlessly.

“John... where…” Sherlock was looking around listlessly. Lestrade sighed and put his hands on his hips.

“Ok…” he huffed. Sherlock heard him from far away. “Obviously I’m not getting anything out of you yet.” Lestrade poked and prodded Sherlock until he was sitting in the back of an ambulance, wrapped in an orange blanket.

Just like…

_That night._

That night he knew. He knew he wanted John forever. In whatever capacity John would have him. He scared off each of John's girlfriends, wanting John to only have the best. ( _And so what if he thought_ he _was the best?_ ) He wanted John to live in comfort, to be happy, he wanted John to have the life he deserved…

By the time they pulled up to the hospital Sherlock felt much more himself. He had shoved off the touchy EMT’s, assuring them he was uninjured, _yes I’m fine, no I didn’t hit my head you bloody moron. Let me out of this ambulance before I find out who your wife is and tell her you’re sleeping with your pool boy!_

The hospital was loud, people bustling about each and every way. When Sherlock got there Lestrade and Mycroft where already deep in conversation with a doctor. Sherlock nearly knocked a nurse to the ground in his haste to join the trio.

“Is he alright?” Sherlock demanded. The doctor looked taken aback for a moment. His eyes flashing to the two other men in confusion.

“Sherlock…” Mycroft said softly, too soft… Sherlock brushed him off.

“Is he alright?” He demanded again, harsher this time. “John! John Watson, is he ok? Is he alive?!” Sherlock demanded again. The Doctor seemed to shake himself and his face set.

“I take it you’re Sherlock Holmes?” He asked.

“ _Is. He. Alive?!_ ” Sherlock cried again, ready to seize the doctors coat.

His hand was caught by Mycroft. The doctor took a small step back and took a deep breath. Sherlock felt Lestrade grab his other arm. Holding him back, _again_.

“Mr. Wats-“

“Doctor Watson.” Sherlock snarled. The doctor took another deep breath, looking as if he was restraining himself from hitting something. Sherlock was probably that something.

“ _Dr._ Watson is in surgery. The bullet punctured his right lung, though luckily it missed his heart, not by much, mind you. It’s going to be a long surgery, Mr. Holmes, but we’re doing all we can.” Sherlock felt his heart stop.

“Will he live?” he finally gasped out. The doctor shuffled awkwardly from foot to foot.

“Well…”

“Stop.” Sherlock hissed. “Don’t… Don’t be optimistic. Tell me, percentage wise, will he live?”

“There’s… close to a 30% chance Doctor Watson will pull through. We’re doing all we can… it’ll be hours before we…”

The voice faded away. Everything faded away.

He was sitting.

His hands itched… the blood was flaking off.

John's blood.

“You should go home and change.” Mycroft said, his hand falling on Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock just shook his head.

“Sherlock… It’ll be hours before-“

“No.” Sherlock said, he voice devoid of emotion.

Time passed. Without meaning to he had sunk into his mind palace.

_Domestic life, so mundane, so dull, John made it a comfort, one Sherlock never afforded himself. Sherlock, touch starved Sherlock, love sick Sherlock, John always indulged him._

_When Sherlock would sit on the couch and tuck his cold toes beneath John’s thigh the man would just huff in fake annoyance and turn the channel._

_John making dinner, “_ no Sherlock, you _cannot_ use the left overs for that mold experiment. _”_

_Quite nights, John prodding Sherlock until he came back down from his mind palace, practically tucking the younger man into bed._

_John in the morning, soft and sleep shuffled, yawning and scrubbing his eyes. “_ Cuppa, Sherl _?”_

_Their unspoken communication. Grunts and nods conveying whole sentences. Sherlock had a whole wing in his mind palace dedicated to John. He had catalogued each of John’s tones, each of the ways John said his name. Annoyance, fond annoyance (far more common than any other), frustration, sleepily, after a nightmare, after a case, while stitching the other man up after one stupid tussle with a criminal._ Sherlock, Sherlock _… so many tones, so many meanings, one word._

_Just one word…_

Far away murmurs…

“Mycroft… is he going to be ok?”

“I… I don’t know Greg. I’ve never seen him like this.”

“Has Sherlock ever… _Had_ someone?”

“Never…”

_John washing dishes with him, side by side. Sherlock blabbering on about how Chanel no. 5 recently changed their formula, “_ Environmentally friendly John, honestly _.” and now he’d have to change that whole section of the perfume identification index on his website, tedious…_

_John walking into the living room after a bad dream, shaken, sweating, sniffling, hand rubbing harshly over his eyes. Sherlock making him a cup of tea, sitting quietly as the man sips. Silence, each of them in their respective chairs, peace._

_John laughing with delight as they swing over a rooftop, hooting as they catch up with some criminal or another. Going for Chinese takeout, always the same place, after any case above an 8. Sitting in Angelo’s, laughing about some silly patient of John’s._

“Sherlock.” Mycroft’s voice…

Sherlock blinked, looking about him. He wasn’t in the waiting room anymore. He had changed, the sun had risen, his hair was dry, but his hands where clean. A few hours, at least, perhaps days? But he wasn’t thirsty so no…

“Sherlock.” Mycroft said again, sharper this time.

“Yes. Yes I’m here.” Sherlock said, shaking his head slightly, trying to clear the fog.

“He’s out of surgery.” Sherlock's eyes went comically wide as he sprang out of his chair (chair? When did he sit?)

“Where is he? Is he awake?” Sherlock cleared his throat and face, trying to reclaim some control of himself. Mycroft was examining him, scrutinizing.

“He’s… he went into a coma.” Mycroft finally said. Sherlock felt something in his chest twist and writhe.

“When… will he wake?” Sherlock finally asked. Mycroft looked away, his mouth twisting.

“There’s… a high probability he will. The surgery was relatively successful. The bullet was extracted, the lung inflated, but they’ve had to remove a portion of his intestines, as well as a small part of his liver. The internal bleeding is slowing, if it stops by midday, they say there’s a high probability he’ll wake with no mental consequences.”

“And if the bleeding doesn’t stop?” Sherlock asked swiftly. Mycroft pursed his lips, his brow furrowing. He looked… sad.

“Sherlock… If John doesn’t wake within the week… if the bleeding hasn’t stopped in a few hours… There’s a large chance that John won’t… won’t wake at all.” Mycroft grasped his elbow and Sherlock realized he had been swaying.

“Sherlock…” Mycroft said quietly, moving closer to his brother and speaking lowly, “He… he changed his will a few months ago… You’re his power of attorney.” Sherlock furrowed his brow and pulled back looking at his brother.

“I see.” He said, god he was parched. His lips felt bone dry. Mycroft stepped back slightly.

“Right… well the doctor said you’re free to stay in John’s room if you’d like.” Sherlock nodded absently.

He didn’t leave the room.

He brought up a chair, sitting at John’s side, holding his hand. Let people talk. Let them speculate.

Harry came in a few hours later. She was a blubbering mess, she was sober though, John would have been happy about that. Sherlock had to keep John in his mind while talking to the woman. She had John’s coloring, sandy hair and blue eyes, but otherwise they couldn’t have been more different. John was usually Sherlock’s compass of kindness, his conductor of light. The conversation was short. She couldn’t stay in town (couldn’t stay away from the alcohol) for more than a day. And _please call me when he wakes?_

_One day…_

_Two days…_

_Three days_ before Sherlock “awoke” once again. He was parched and Lestrade had just put down a large bottle of water and takeaway on the bedside table next to Sherlock. Lestrade pulled the other chair up at Johns other side.

“The bleeding stopped.” Sherlock said. He took the water, unwillingly. Lestrade nodded.

“Good, that’s… that’s good.” He looked awkward.

“Have, uh, have you slept?” Sherlock shook his head minutely.

“Showered?”

_shake_ ,

“eaten?”

  _shake_.

“Sherlock,” Lestrade sighed. “You need to take care of yourself.”

“He’ll wake soon.” Was all Sherlock could answer. ( _because he would wake, he had to. John had to, there was no other option. John would wake_ )

“Won’t do him much good if you’re half starved and stink like a pig, will it?” Lestrade demanded.

Sherlock blinked and huffed, picking up the take away with an eye roll. Lestrade nagged him till he’d eaten everything. It tasted like cardboard, he hated Lestrade’s voice suddenly.

“Give me your key.” Lestrade demanded.

Sherlock didn’t even ask a question, just blindly dug in his pocket, dropping the key in the older man’s hand.

Some hours later Lestrade returned.

“I didn’t know who’s was who’s.” He said sheepishly ( _lying_ , Sherlock's mind whispered) holding out a bag to Sherlock.

“Go.” He demanded, pointing at the adjoining bathroom.

“No, he might-“

“I’ll call for you if he wakes, go, shower, change.” Sherlock debated ignoring him for a moment before standing.

It was John’s shampoo. It was John’s toothpaste…

Sherlock wrapped himself in John's jumper, the ugly beige one that somehow made him look so soft. The bulky sweaters that hide a soldier’s body. It was too short for Sherlock in the sleeves. Lestrade didn’t mention it.

_Days passed._

_Two_

_Three_

Sherlock didn’t cry. With each day he knew that the likely hood shrank, but he didn’t cry.

Mycroft came. Made Sherlock eat again, made him shower, change. He put John’s sweater back on, curling in the chair. Mycroft didn’t speak. Sherlock was grateful.

_A week._

_Two._

_Three._

Mycroft was there, it had been almost a month, just under. Sherlock knew why he was there.

Mycroft sat across from him, holding a thick envelope.

“Sherlock…” he started.

“No.” Sherlock snapped, gripping John's hand harder.

Mycroft grew silent, when his eyes flashed over his older brother’s face, Sherlock saw heart ache, sadness. Sentiment… The older man stood, dropping the envelope in Sherlock's lap.

_One day_

_Two_

_Three_

Sherlock opened the envelope. Army benefits, will, assets split between Sherlock and John’s sister. A letter for his sister, begging her to stop drinking, demanding she use the meager money from John’s liquidated assets to check into a rehab clinic.

And an envelope.

A white envelope. With Sherlock’s name in blue ink. 

The large folder was dumped in the bedside drawers. The envelope sat in his lap.

_One day_

_Two_

_Three_

Sherlock kissed Johns knuckles, wondering what life would have been like if he hadn’t…

_One day_

_Two_

_Three_

Sherlock cried. Sobbing uncontrollably, his face resting on John’s thigh.

When Sherlock was four, he fell out of he and his brothers tree house and broke his arm.

When Sherlock was fourteen the first boy he ever had a crush on called him a freak.

When Sherlock was twenty four he was high out of his mind on the 7%.

When Sherlock was thirty four the love of his life took a bullet because of him.

_One day_

_Two_

_Three_

Sherlock ripped open the envelope.

_Sherlock,_

_I started writing this after the taxi driver. I edited it after Sarah was almost killed. I’m not what you thought I was. I’m not what I thought I was. I’m terrified. I’m terrified because I’m in love with you. Madly, completely in love with you. I don’t understand it. It’s not like any girl I’ve ever known. It’s not even like the man in my unit._

_Sometimes I think about retirement, I wonder what it will be like._

_For some reason you’re always there. Always with me. A small cottage, a beehive outback and you in a bee keepers’ suit. Me typing away on a laptop, books around us, ~~your~~ _our _cases._

_This love… I’m content with whatever I can have. I’m scared though, I’m so dependent on you, life without you was meaningless, life without you would be pointless. Lovers, brothers, colleagues, partners, friends, I don’t care. I’m happy for it._

_I should have told you. I should have told you when I was stitching you up after that case with the Armenian assassin. I should have told you that night with the cabbie, I should have told you that first day, when your brother snatched me off the street, and I attached myself to you and rebuked him._

_I’m sorry I didn’t. I was scared. I hope you never have to read this. I hope I work up the nerve…_

_I love you Sherlock._

_John_

Sherlock cried

And cried

He felt so human

He felt so broken,

He couldn’t breathe. It hurt, _god_ it hurt, it was worse than burning alive, a physical pain in his chest. He thought the term heart break was just an expression. God he was wrong, so wrong. It was real, he felt his heart breaking. He felt himself… slipping…

_One day_

_Two_

_Three_

_Four_

_Five_

_Six_

_Seven_

_Eight_

_Nine_

_Te-_

There was a twitch. Sherlock jolted up, staring at where their hands met with bated breath. Waiting… waiting.

There it was! John, his hand, _his hand_! Sherlock cried out in shock. He dropped the letter, the letter he’d only put down when taking showers or eating, the letter that was crumpled and smudged with tears, the letter that had seared itself into Sherlock’s mind. His free hand scrambled for the call button, blabbering to John the whole time.

“This can’t be a joke? Do you understand me John? You have to, I need you to… _Please_ John, just, once for me, please please, I’m so sorry. I ask you for so much, I know I do, and you always… always. Please, just this one more thing, please, please”

His mind wasn’t forming coherent thoughts, he was just blabbering, choked words and pleas, every few seconds John's hand would twitch, and Sherlock would sob dryly, no tears leaving his eyes, part fear, part relief.

There was a nurse then.

“Sir? Sir?” she questioned.

“He, he moved. He’s-“ Sherlock said stuttering, his eyes wide, and looked at her helplessly. Her eyes filled with pity.

“I’ll ring the doctor and let him know.” She said kindly.

That was it. That was all she said. Sherlock looked at her, she was tired. _Sick kid, her husband worked too much, issues with her mother, no father, three younger siblings-_

John’s hand squeezed. Sherlock looked down at it, just staring. He waited. He knew a twitch from a three-month coma patient wasn’t top priority.

So Sherlock waited, talking to John all the while.

_One hour_

_Two_

_Three_

Six hand squeezes, seven eye movements.

Then there where Doctors. Sherlock felt himself blooming, coming back to life as they swarmed John. Tests, poking, prodding. Sherlock saw it, he was present, he was _awake_. He read the two doctors, he saw their lives in the state of her ponytail, and the cleanliness of his watch. He saw, he _saw_ , he was awake and alive.

“Well,” one of the doctors said after some time, looking in minor shock at one of the many machines John was hooked up to.

“It, uh… It looks like he can breathe on his own again. I don’t want to give you too much hope, Mr. Holmes, but it looks like Dr. Watson is waking up.”

_One day_

_Two Days_

_Three-_ Johns eyes blinked open slowly and he grunted, his eyes squeezing closed again against the harsh light.

“John? John!” Sherlock breathed in relief, reaching for the light switch.

 John let out a small grunt of acknowledgment as his eyes fluttered open. He looked lost, slow, but he was awake! He was alive!

“Water?” John croaked

“Oh, yes, yes” Sherlock jumped out of the chair, his hand felt cold without John. John gulped the water down slowly, shakily.

“What… where?” he croaked, his eyes flashing around, brow furrowed.

“It’s ok, it’s ok John” Sherlock shushed.

“You’re… we’re in a hospital. There was, you where shot…” Sherlock said, fiddling with the glass in his hand. John just blinked slowly. He looked so confused. So lost.

“John…” he asked, slowly, putting the glass of water down and grabbing John’s hand again. “John can you tell me what the last thing you remember was?”

John looked lost.

“We… I… I was going to Sarah’s? For, for supper. Then, I don’t… I don’t remember? There was a man…” John trailed off, his brow furrowing.

 “Sherlock… how long have I been out?”

Sherlock sat down heavily.

“Three months.” He whispered.

* * *

 

 It was another two days before they let John go home. In that time, he demanded Sherlock go home, clean, take care of himself, eat something, _why are you so bloody thin_?

Sherlock found himself smiling as he dusted, cleaned out the fridge. He even threw away the severed hand, the experiment was ruined anyway, and he wanted the flat to be spotless when John came home. Wanted so many things… he dusted John’s room, put his laptop on the charger, brought John a fresh change of clothes, his favorite pajama bottoms, and the ugly jumper he liked so much.

John was weak, his body not used to moving so much. He couldn’t walk long, he lost his breath walking up the stairs, his hands shook when he held his cup of tea.

But he was John,

He was alive.

He was tired, weak, and so alive!

Sherlock was thrilled, but also a bit terrified, because he knew they couldn’t dance around it. He knew that he and John needed to talk. He let John rest though, for a few days. He didn’t want to overload the man so soon.

It was a few days later. John hadn’t called Sarah once, which Sherlock found odd. He could vaguely recall Sarah coming once during John's coma, but he thought that perhaps he’d snapped at her, because she didn’t seem to stay long. Though, for all Sherlock knew she could have been there for days on end.

John and Sherlock where in their arm chairs facing one and other. John was lazy and soft, warm, a fond smile on his lips and he sleepily blinked at Sherlock. They were giggling lazily about some old army story of John’s when it slipped out of Sherlock’s mouth.

“I love you.”

John froze, his eyes going wide.

“W-what?” he spluttered. Sherlock blushed, sitting up straight in his chair.

“Er, I meant. Uh…” Sherlock stood, pacing sharply. “It’s just that, well, while you where under…” Sherlock took a deep breath, cutting a look at John who was sitting up, confused. Sherlock paused. Words failed him. He strode over to John, leaning over his chair, John craned his neck back. Sherlock took a breath and…

He kissed him.

_One second_

_Two_

_Three…_

John moved, reached up, grasped Sherlock’s hair and gripped his shoulder. He kissed back, fiercely, softly. It was John in a nutshell, strong, sweet, soft, ruthless. John pushed up, he had a strength that Sherlock hadn’t anticipated after these months of being doormat, but oh, _oh…_

He was pushed back, John’s mouth disconnecting from him. Sherlock groaned as they broke apart, tilting his head back, John was biting his neck, sucking, licking, god his mouth was like a furnace so _so…_

“Bed” John huffed, breathless.

Sherlock just nodded vaguely, prodding John along. They stumbled up the stairs, John’s jumper and Sherlock’s blue dressing gown left in their wake. The rooms all still smelt stale from disuse. But John smelt… Like cinnamon, tea, the chocolate covered biscuits he kept “hidden” behind the fridge, gun powder, and, god, _home_ , John smelled like _home_. Sherlock couldn’t get Johns clothes off fast enough. He was trying not to think, hard for someone like him. Because if Sherlock thought he’d be scared, if Sherlock thought he’d have to admit that he’d never been with someone, he knew the mechanics but didn’t…

“Breath, love” John whispered.

Sherlock nodded. He was kneeling over John, both of them now nude. Sherlock sat back on Johns lap, mapping out his body. The scar on his shoulder, the new pink one along his right side. Smaller ones here and there. John’s face was flushed, hair mussed, eyes soft, a smile on his lips, the impish one, the boyish one that made Sherlock's heart flutter.

And... oh, _oh!_ John was… proportionate. He had more girth than Sherlock and wasn’t much shorter. He was also hard. The head peeking just out from his foreskin… God he was…

“Perfect” Sherlock breathed. John smiled fondly, his hands smoothing up and down Sherlock's thighs.

“You too.” They shared a look, before both bursting into ridiculous grins, Sherlock diving to lay kisses all along John’s throat.

The older man laughed roughly, sighing after, battle worn hands coming up to cradle Sherlock’s head, fingers running through dark curls.

“I’ve, I’ve never...”

“I know, I know” John huffed against his neck.

“Lube?” John groaned, his lips now attached to Sherlock's left nipple, teasing, sucking…

“Wha- oh, um, drawer?” Sherlock finally answered, moving back slightly.

 John hummed and flipped them over. Sherlock sucked in a breath, both impressed by the strength the soldier still seemed to possess, even in his atrophied state, and also nervous as hell. Was he meant to “bottom”? Had John done this before? He was a doctor, he knew how the body worked, right? He understood gay sex, surely?

“Shhh…” John ran his hand down Sherlock’s flank, smiling at him. So warmly… Like summer days at Sherlock's grandfathers house. The bees buzzing, running about in his play clothes with Mycroft. The thought should have probably wilted Sherlock's erection, but it just made him feel safe.

“Just relax, ok?” John asked, leaning up to kiss Sherlock’s head.

Sherlock gulped but nodded. The top on the lube popped open. It took him a moment to realize that John wasn’t actually moving from his perch. His right hand had instead gone back between his body, there was the slick sound of lube and- _Oh_! Sherlock felt himself throb in arousal, his hips bucking up instinctively. The movement nudged John’s fingers deeper into himself and ground John’s cock against Sherlock’s stomach. The older man let out a yelp that he’d firmly deny if asked later, before huffing and grinding down. God, the squelch of lube was so… sexy, so crass. Sherlock couldn’t help himself, he snarled roughly, gripping the short strands of John’s golden hair, a bit longer now than usual. Their mouths crashed together. John’s breath became short, broken off huffs and grunts every time he moved his hand, adding another finger. A moment later, or perhaps hours, Sherlock couldn’t really tell, John’s hands, including the one slick with lube, came up and gently pushed Sherlock onto his back.

“Just, just hold, here, ‘kay?” John grabbed Sherlock's wrists, directing hands to his hips.

Sherlock licked his lips and nodded, his eyes bouncing from one part of John’s body to another. Tanned skin, scars, his cock. God, John’s cock… It was so hard, so pink, so tender and… and wet. Sherlock never would have guessed… John was leaking all over the younger man’s stomach, one drop of precum wasn’t even halfway down his cock before another emerged. His cock shined in the dim light, his length almost an angry red. So perf-

John’s hand was on his cock. Sherlock groaned, his head tipping back onto the pillow, exposing as much of his neck as possible, mind short circuited. God, _yes_ , John’s hand was slick with lube then, then…

“Oh fuck” Sherlock gasped quietly, opening his eyes and looking up at John. The mans face was one of intense concentration, and Sherlock understood why when John began to sink back onto his cock.

John's face, now shining with sweat, broke into a smile, he huffed out pleasured, choked gasps of laughter before sitting back fully, leaning forward over Sherlock. Both hands came to rest on the sheets on either side of him. John pivoted his hips in the most delicious way, Sherlock’s hands gripping tightly. God, he should probably let up? He was probably leaving bruises, and god, fuck, why did that make him want to hold tighter?

John wasted no time, no pretense, making love to the man mirrored him in every way. He was relentless, but so gentle, and Sherlock realized that should probably be his role, but it wasn’t. that was ok. This felt right, John covering him, moaning into his ear, lips shakily kissing his neck, gentle teeth. Their skin was sweaty, sliding against one and other, so warm. John was perfect, he felt like home. He was tight, slick. Sherlock was gone, so gone, his mind so far away, his mind more present than it had ever been. God, how had he ever lived without this? He wanted to stay here forever, wrapped in John, holding him, so warm, so… Sherlock’s hips bucked, feet finally finding purchase along slippery bed sheets.

John cried out, rearing up and back, like he’d been shocked by a live wire. His face, god his _face_ , twisted, it was the face he made when he was in pain, or something close, but so different. His brows where raised, a small smile pulling at the corners of his lips. Sherlock wanted more, wanted John undone. He snarled suddenly, rearing up, pushing John flat on his back.  John's face lit up and he let out a breathy chuckle, smiling broadly.

“God, Sherlock… You’re so brilliant, God I’ve wanted this so long, so long...” John was breathing hard, hands scrambling, like he couldn’t stay in one place too long. In Sherlock’s hair, around his shoulders, his waist, pulling on Sherlock’s arse, arching…

“I love you.” Sherlock gasped, rutting like an animal.

It was graceless, his rhythm stilted with inexperience, his hands gripped John's hair, probably pulling out strands, but god he didn’t care. It was so much, so perfect.

“I know, I know, me too, god I love you too” John breathed into Sherlock’s hair, his hips writhing, trying to meet Sherlock’s every thrust. Sherlock reached a hand blindly between them, going to touch John but John grabbed his wrist quickly.

“No, no like this, like this, please, so close.”

His voice was broken, like he couldn’t catch his breath. Sherlock just whined, a sound so alien he couldn’t be sure it was he who had made it, and slid his arms under John’s shoulders, cradling. His thrusts became erratic, god he was close. This was so much better than his hand, god fuck, when was the last time Sherlock had an orgasm? He must have been 20, maybe younger? He only did it to get rid of persistent morning wood. God this was better, so much better.

“John- J- John I’m going to-“ Sherlock stuttered.

“Me too, me too, god Sherlock, I need to see you.”

Sherlock lifted slightly onto his elbows. Blue eyes, two pairs, both so different yet so similar in shade, met. Their breath was hot between them. Sherlock was cataloging the lines around John’s eyes, the way some of his brow hairs poked out of place, the way his lashes got lighter at the tips. Sherlock saw and felt the exact moment John came. He gasped, his brow furrowing deeper, mouth dropping open, choked sounds, but he wouldn’t look away from Sherlock. His body spasmed, tightening and releasing. Sherlock groaned, his eyes fluttering before he forced them open, joining John in bliss.

 

When Sherlock’s body finally stopped shivering, he realized he was wrapped in John’s arms, legs tangled. John was snoring softly, snuffling into Sherlock’s hair. Sherlock just smiled and snuggled closer, he knew he should probably clean them of semen before it dried, but he didn’t want to let go.

They awoke hours later, crusty, almost glued together. Smiling at each other. Showers where ran, pajamas and dressing gowns dawned. John made tea, just perfect, as always. It was… like always. Nothing had changed, the domestic bliss Sherlock had cherished so much was there, still so natural. But now John seemed lighter, his eyes bright, tossing smiles at Sherlock, hands running along his back and neck, kissing Sherlock’s cheek as he sat the pot of tea on the table.

“John…” Sherlock sighed dreamily, watching as John scanned the paper.  

“Hmm?” the older man hummed, looking up. Eyes so soft, world weary but so happy.

“I’m glad you wrote the letter.” Sherlock finally mustered. John smiled, pleasantly confused, tilting his head.

“What letter?”

 

**_For gods sake Mycroft, what if he had bloody well died? -S_ **

**_Sentiment, I’m afraid, is not such a disadvantage as I led you to believe, brother mine. -M_ **

**_You knew he’d wake, then? -S_ **

**_Does it matter? -M_ **

Sherlock looked up from his phone. John was sat at the desk in their lounge, typing away. His brow creased in concentration. Sherlock smiled as he slipped his phone back in his pocket, picking up his violin and placing it under his chin before beginning to play.

John looked up. Sherlock wondered if he thought the music sounded familiar. It was meant to. It was meant to reflect them, from the first moment to this one.

“Wrote a new one?” John asked, his typing paused for a moment. Sherlock, with his eyes closed, just smiled lightly and shook his head.

“Still composing. Probably will be for a long time.”

“Long song, that?” John sounded amused. Sherlock paused for a moment (perhaps he’d leave the pause there in the future? To represent those long months.)

“Oh yes, it’ll go on for ages.”

The rain tapped gently against the windows of Baker Street, the fire crackled warmly. The whole flat seemed to settle into its joints, as though the earth itself was at peace.


End file.
